Blimp
by bakuratrash
Summary: Bakura lost to the Pharaoh in Battle City, proving to Malik that he is pretty much useless on his own. Malik gets the perfect opportunity that night to shape Bakura to be exactly the way he wants him: Loyal and dependent.


**[** _**Hello I was lazy and didn't take out /these things/ because there were too many words but just know that those mean that the word should be italicized!**_

 _ **Thank you please enjoy this delicious thiefshipping RP. We love a bottom Bakura in this house.**_ **]**

...

 **Blimp**

Malik lay down in his bed, his arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. His facial expression was hard and calculating as he explained the new plan that he would have to follow through with to himself. Collaborating with the spirit of the Ring was proving to be beneficial, yet also quite an obstacle. He'd just lost the duel against the Pharaoh after all, and needless to say Malik was rather irritated at the fact that Bakura hadn't listened to him. Hopefully now, considering they were back where they started, Bakura would actually listen. "We need to consider the other factors now," he muttered. "There's no way we'll be able to do anything we actually want to do on this disgusting blimp. We're just going to have to keep playing by the rules until we land. Otherwise, I would tell you to go and strangle the Pharaoh in his sleep."

The Spirit shuffled listlessly through the shuddering halls of the airship, cold hands in his even colder pockets. Bakura snorted, embarrassed at his mortal flaws. His hands shook, as they always did when he was frustrated or excited. At this point in time, he felt weighed with shame and humiliation, crushed as he had been by the Pharaoh's confusingly effective repertoire of trading cards. While Bakura recognised that his strategy as a player consisted of many close calls and sacrifices, he had really thought that this time his plan was fucking foolproof. How amusing. The Spirit kicked at a cup left stranded in the middle of the hallway by a passenger and watched it spin wildly through the air, before hitting a door and bouncing across the ground. Bakura's dark eyes watched the helpless object come to a pathetic rest at his feet and he sneered, if only to himself. "How fitting. You're nothing but a waste," he growled, half to himself and half to the cup beneath him. "Useless and dried up. You deserve to be punished." As he continued staring at the floor, a low voice caught his attention, swimming in a ghostly arc from the door the cup had smacked against. Ah, his partner, the one who put such faith in his abilities, only to be let down and presumably embarrassed by Bakura's poor display. The man lumbered towards the entrance, placing his hand around the door handle and pressing his ear to the door. If his partner was scheming anything without his consent, Bakura would make himself known. For now, snooping around was enough. It was what he did best.

Had his mind not been occupied by other things, Malik certainly would have sensed the presence at the door right away. Instead, Malik was invested in trying to make sure that he would know everything that would happen in the future. He started to grit his teeth, trying to picture and imagine every possible response to every possible action that he could take. "It would just be easier to just kill him," he mumbled, his eyes narrowing at the ceiling. "It would be easier to just kill everyone and move on, but—" Malik sighed, it being mixed with an annoyed scoff. "That's not how it works. Playing by the rules—No, getting him to play by the rules is the only way to get what I want." Malik hadn't realized he was even talking out loud until he heard himself speak the last word. Not that it mattered to him, though.

From beyond the door, Bakura's eyes narrowed. Yes, this was out of context, and without further information he couldn't truly decipher what Malik was speaking about, but even so, the words aroused leeriness. The two were still in a partnership, and Bakura abhorred being lied to or plotted against. While he did hide information from Malik, he definitely spoke truth to the man when he asked for it. For Malik to scheme and mutter about a certain person being a target for the boy's disgustingly powerful manipulation abilities spoke directly to Bakura's air of constant suspicion. His fingers knit into the door, little pricks of pain spiralling up his knuckles as splinters split his skin. He couldn't hear whether there was another person in the room, and it infuriated him to no end. He shifted, bare feet freezing on the hall floor. Long hair fell in greasy veils around his concerned expression. Was the door open? He pushed, tentatively, and the door hinges gave an obnoxious moan. Fuck.

Malik was snapped out of his train of thought when he'd heard his door. He sat up in the bed, facing the door and anticipating someone to walk in. Malik thought, silently this time, to himself, then quickly came to a conclusion. He smirked, allowing himself to hold the power before the interaction would even commence. The Egyptian stood, flicking his blonde, stringy hair out of his face before walking to the door and yanking it open in hopes to startle the being on the other side. "Spirit of the Ring," Malik said, without so much as even a second glance. He already knew who it was. "Or rather, Bakura. What brings you eavesdropping unsuccessfully at my door at this hour? Do explain."

Had it been his host, and not the parasitic entity he now identified himself as, Bakura would have started back in surprise. Instead, calm dislike wiped across his face. "Ishtar," he grunted, deeply socketed eyes on Malik's golden neckpiece. The boy was not an immediate threat; Bakura considered himself confident enough he could get Malik in a headlock without too much trouble. Discouragingly, Malik was so much taller than the Spirit. Not toweringly and absurdly to the point of hilariousness, like his other self. Malik was to Bakura like a palace guard. Determined, strong-willed, predatorial. It made his arms prickle for a moment and it took him a second to speak his next words. "How kind of you to invite me in." He gestured with a white hand to the room behind Malik's body. "Won't you step aside? It's cold out here."

Any amusement Malik held faded away, and his nose wrinkled at Bakura's hand when it got too close. He took a moment, looking Bakura up and down only to show disapproval. "I can assure you it won't be any warmer in this room than it is out there." Malik noticed the lack of footwear on Bakura's feet, and it only served as another reason, among many, not to let him inside. "Especially considering you don't listen to me any. If I invite you inside, you'll probably turn around and walk away. If I don't, you'll most likely find a way in. You seem to do the complete opposite of what I say, so there's really no point in talking to you. Go back to your room and give that scrawny body of yours a rest. You look like death."

Bakura scoffed, baring his yellow teeth. He would not deny that Malik's prediction was most definitely the plan of action he would take given the chance. Irritated as he was by Malik's backhanded compliments and parental behaviour towards him, the Spirit appreciated that Malik knew his strengths. He scratched his leg with one shaky foot and ran a hand through his hair, which he immediately regretted. His host was a couple levels of hygiene beneath Malik's, which almost embarrassed the Spirit and Malik to be standing face to face. In comparison, Malik glowed, illuminated from the gold that adorned his body so tightly and his dark, polished complexion. He stood tall, upright, a brick wall of resolve against Bakura's hunched pale figure. Fortunately, Bakura knew how to slip through cracks using his voice rather than brute force. "How much I'd love to crawl back to my hovel and curl up in my nest of blood and bones of the innocent. The night holds more interesting explorations, however." He stepped forward, yanking the door slightly more open so Malik couldn't retreat into the safety of his room. "Ishtar," he murmured again, eyes fixed on the curvature of the boy's muscles, sizing him up. "Why don't you come on a little walk with me? It seems like you're having your own difficulties falling asleep. Confide in me, and I might be able to solve your little problem." He grinned like a snake-oil salesman, the expression stretched hideously across his face.

Malik's expression of disgust and disapproval never faded away, but rather only seemed to become more noticeable. After a moment of thinking, though, his face changed and the corner of his mouth rugged into a small smirk. "Fine," he said, his hand shoving Bakura away at the chest as his other closed the door. "Seeing that you're my problem, though, I'm not sure how much you can do to help, but sure. I'll humor you for now." Malik gestured out to the hall. "Shall we go then?"

"Your acquiescence is ever so refreshing," Bakura ground out, pale flesh searing where Malik had touched him. Human interaction was foreign and sickening to Bakura, as well as unnecessary for the effectiveness of any plan, so he didn't understand why, for example, Yugi's friends were always hugging or physically comforting his host. The skin-to-skin contact bled through to Bakura's consciousness, making him want to shrink further back into the Ring. With Malik, it was especially distasteful, as it felt like a power move. In order to regain his hold on the situation, Bakura quickly turned, striding into the dark hallway and expecting Malik to follow. He gestured over his shoulder, dim lit eyes trying to drag the boy forward with only his expression. It seemed he was correct in thinking Malik was plotting a dirty little plan against his partner. Such a wretched turn of events certainly couldn't go unspoken of, and Bakura was always preparing himself for a confrontation. He could smell the tension in the air and it gave his face a sour look. So far, though, the conversation was pacific, and the Spirit was determined to keep it that way for as long as he was able. "Leave the sodding Rod," he huffed, the gilded weapon all too prominent in his line of vision. "If I am indeed such a thorn in your side, I want this to be a fair match." He sincerely hoped the last word would continue to be hyperbolic.

Malik scoffed, as if the mere idea of leaving the rod anywhere but on his person was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard. And really, it was. "I'm not leaving it. You're the one that wanted to go for a walk, and so I agreed. That's as much as you'll be getting from me." Malik shrugged passively. "Besides, you have the Ring, don't you? Surely if I did happen to decide to use the Rod, you'd be able to defend yourself." Another amused smirk made its way onto Malik's lips, and this time he spared a glance in Bakura's direction. "You don't need to be afraid of me, Bakura. I wouldn't hurt you out in the open."

"I'm not afraid of you," Bakura snarled, hair bristling with indignation. Having this kid speak so casually to him made the Spirit's blood scream in his veins. But he continued controlling his breathing, and jerked his shaggy white hair in the direction of the hallway, impatient. "Fucking brat. It's reasonable to request an audience with one's partner, especially if that person is muttering and mumbling about using his hocus pocus and shiny toys to play god with people's minds." He almost snorted aloud as he said this. It was almost exactly what Bakura's end goal entailed. "And besides, you seem quite resigned to leave that room yourself. Stop babbling. We're wasting time." A long, brittle finger wiggled in Malik's face. "Walk with me, Ishtar," he grunted, voice tart with frustration. He slapped the Ring as if to draw attention away from his face, which was starting to sweat with vexation. Lackadaisical folk made him grit his teeth until his gums bled. The Spirit needed tangible results to quell his suspicions of Malik's acrimony.

Malik was unimpressed with Bakura's attempt at corralling him and instead found it rather amusing. Malik could turn around and walk in the other direction if he wanted to, and Bakura probably wouldn't be able to do much about it. But Malik did agree, and perhaps he could set some kind of example for the malevolent spirit that seemed to as he pleased, even under a 'partnership' circumstance. Malik moved from his spot and started to walk, keeping his eyes ahead of him and certainly not on the man on his side. "You get angry when someone doesn't listen to you," he said, figuring the timing couldn't have been better. "And not listening to you did waste time, didn't it? My apologies." Of course, the apology wasn't sincere. If anything, Malik held a mocking tone of voice. He couldn't help it when talking to Bakura, it seemed.

The Spirit rubbed his temples and yanked vacantly at his unwashed hair. It was obvious Malik was attempting to rile him up, and Bakura knew himself enough to predict that his temper would fly out of control sooner than later. It was late, he was cold, and he wanted information and clarity so he could go back to bed without being consumed by the apprehension that the Rod would probe his mind in the early hours of the morning. "Psychoanalyze me all you want," he barked, shoving his hands in his pockets and lumbering along next to Malik. "Your pestering is trivial. What I am concerned about is your little attempted coup-d'etat of our alliance." The Spirit stared unabashedly at Malik's profile, annoyed the boy wouldn't look at him. It was yet another power move, a maneuver to squash Bakura's control of the two's entente. He sniffed, wrinkling his crooked nose. "Tell me, am I misbehaving? If my behaviour is so repugnant to you, won't you do me the honour of telling it to my fucking face?"

Malik kept his eyes on the hallway, searching for a specific space that would suit his needs for the quick incident that was going to occur. Emphasis on quick. Malik didn't necessarily want to be walking around with Bakura for very long, and he didn't want the exchange to take very long, either. "Because you wouldn't listen to me," Malik replied, as coolly as he could. "That's the thing with you. That's my problem with you. I thought you would have gotten the hint beforehand, but I guess it takes a lot to get through that incredibly thick skull of yours." Malik's jaw set as his eyes looked through the shadowy hallway and found a wall indicating the end of the hall. Malik looked at Bakura then, his expression stoic, but with a clear tension in his brow. "You didn't listen to me, and now we just took a good three fucking steps backwards that I wasn't anticipating. That's not going to work."

A fiery gurgle bubbled up in Bakura's throat and he had to swallow several times in order to not scream. Malik was certainly testing him, playing with his temperament like matches on a stove. The Spirit chewed his already-shredded nails and looked away, face sullen with the harsh criticism. Thick-skulled, huh? Sure, he was confident he could crack a couple noses with his forehead, but jokes aside, Malik's spiteful comments poisoned the air still more. Didn't the boy realise Bakura had had no choice in the matter? Losing, however disgraceful, was better than having his chosen body broken more than it needed to be. How pretentious did Malik have to be to dredge up so much irritation at Bakura's life-or-death decision? It inconvenienced the Spirit to no end to have his partner care so little about the survival of the other. Bakura cared nothing for Malik himself, but would at least protect his wellbeing in order for things to go smoothly. "Indeed," he snapped, "For at that point, it was out of my hands. I wouldn't have been able to listen to all your lovely quibble right now had I not stepped in and saved my host's ass back there." He stepped closer, tentatively, voice dropping to a hiss. "If you can't discern recklessness from quick thinking in a stressful situation, I'm afraid you're going to have to turn all that disparagement onto yourself." Bakura clicked his tongue. "If you want people to listen to you, perhaps you should practice those long winded speeches in a mirror. Perhaps your other self would sit and listen to your prattle like a good boy."

Malik's own temper was starting to wear very thin, but he considered himself good at hiding the fact that he was losing control. He chewed on his tongue, his nose twitching in the slightest out of disgust when Bakura dared to get closer to him. The hand furthest from Bakura balled into a fist, and, after pausing mid-step, the Egyptian grabbed Bakura's shoulder and hurled his fist, which happened to adorn a thick, gold ring, right into Bakura's face. Malik's eyes were narrowed now, and he no longer seemed passive about the situation. "I don't think you understand the situation, Bakura," Malik spat out in a harsh, dangerous tone, much different from the one he'd spoken in before. He grabbed Bakura's shirt by the collar and pushed him into the wall. "You should have waited instead of throwing everything away in the blink of your stupid fucking eye!"

Although the punch itself was not anything the Spirit hadn't experienced before, especially within ancient Egypt, his entire body still shuddered noisily backwards at the force of the blow. He hadn't thought of Malik as a person who resorted to physical disputes, much less in the hall of a rather crowded airship. Malik's carelessness in ensuring they didn't get caught—even after he was so adamant about Bakura's negligence to their glorious plan—stung more than his teeth ripping through his lips as Malik's fist connected with his jaw. "I—you—fucking bastard," snarled Bakura, gasping, trying to reattain both mental and physical balance within himself, even as his body lurched out of control with Malik's fingers tightly around his shirt collar. The hold slightly blocked his airways, and the Spirit flushed purple and blue with oxygen-deprived chagrin. Blood oozed lazily from his lip, which quivered from the pain, and dribbled disgustingly onto his shirt and Malik's squeezing hand. "Throw everything away? What were we throwing away, Ishtar? You kicked me out into that arena with some staggeringly high fucking hopes. You give me free reign to do as I want and then get angry with my choices?" Bakura's hands scrabbled on the wall behind him, searching for a support. "You're a lousy hypocrite, tombkeeper!"

If Malik wasn't clear that he was angry before, he was about to show it after the word 'tombkeeper'. He pulled Bakura closer, their noses just barely touching. "I am not a fucking tombkeeper," he hissed, letting go of Bakura's shirt in favor of gripping his shoulder and throwing a punch into his gut. "Look at you. You're fucking hopeless and if this past duel is anything to go by, it's no wonder it's taking you so long to get your revenge."

Bakura managed a sarcastic snort, eyes burning into Malik's violent purple irises. All he got across was a barking snarl of "Hopeless? Fucking punk. You have no idea what I'm capable o—unngh!" before having to forgo a snarky response and doubling over to clutch at his stomach, teeth set and mouth clamped shut to keep his exclamation of shock, anger and pain from reaching Malik's ears. Even as he fell back against the wall in debilitation, the Spirit told himself he was still in control. Even as the bile lapped at his wisdom teeth, Bakura swept the sweaty hair out of his eyes and looked up furiously at Malik's outstretched, golden-ringed fingers. The boy was strong. Fiercely, competitively strong. It sent palpitations up Bakura's arms, which felt tender from being shoved against an unforgivingly rigid wall. "You think you can use your fucking ersatz dignity to make me feel beneath you? You—" he breathed harshly through his nose, feeling the effects of the jab confusing his thoughts with discomfort. "You lived in a dirty nest all your life, like a rat running through sewage pipes. Don't talk to me like you're better than me. Fucking pisser."

Malik tilted his head up slightly so he could literally look down on Bakura, scoffing in disgust. "You really are hopeless." Malik grabbed the collar of Bakura's shirt again, pulling down and practically throwing him to the floor. He quickly stepped on Bakura's back, pinning him in place. Malik moved his booted foot further upward, his rubber sole stepping on Bakura's neck as he leaned forward. Beautiful blonde hair hung around Malik's face, and he looked down at Bakura's scrunched up features. "I am better than you. It doesn't matter where I came from. What matters is that I'm closer than you've ever been in thousands of years. Frankly, I trust myself more than I trust what little wisdom you seem to have gained throughout your pathetic lifetime." Malik applied more of his weight to the pressure on Bakura's neck. "And I don't use some scrawny kid's body to get around. You're restricted, even if you are given 'free reign'. Maybe you should think before you speak, spirit. Everything that comes out of that disgusting mouth of yours never seems to hold any truth."

"Hah—gods, you—hrrr..." Bakura gasped through spit and hair in his mouth, nails attempting to lacerate the cold floor. His nails clicked like a cockroach scuttling across tiles. To have a boy, a literal fucking child step on his back and tell him that he was a failure gave the Spirit homicidal urges like no other. No one except Bakura knew the extent of his plan, the painstakingly complex machinations he'd mulled on for centuries in order to create the perfect revenge, the magnum opus of retribution. His blood ran with rancor and he chomped at his bleeding lip with his molars in disgruntlement. Should he let this kid run his vile mouth and wax poetic about his meaningless achievements, or teach this little shit a lesson? Bakura leaned towards the latter, but in his current situation, it seemed more difficult than he had anticipated, which infuriated him more. Bakura decided to attack Malik verbally, if nothing else, but he was already steeling himself for another physical barrage of pain. "You know—you know absolutely nothing about the magnitude of my plot," he sneered, face pressed against the floor in a way that comically muffled his voice. Malik's stupid boot on his neck did not help. "I've— hnnh —dreamt of such fantasies, of scenarios so volatile that they would make your skin rot off your bones."

"Shut up," Malik said, his tone giving away the irritation that came with Bakura's rambling. "I'm sure you've dreamt all about it many, many times." Despite his anger, Malik definitely felt some kind of pity for the spirit beneath his boot. So many years have passed, and only now did Bakura find the Pharaoh and have the chance to get revenge. Malik felt he was superior specifically for that reason. Malik searched for the pharaoh. He didn't wait for him to come. The boy wanted something, and what he wanted he knew he would get by any means necessary. "Let me ask you something, Bakura," Malik started, his voice suddenly sounding sweet and harmless. The pressure on Bakura's neck lessened, and Malik rolled Bakura onto his back with his heel, his foot then pressing down on Bakura's chest. "Just how badly do you want revenge? How willing are you to take him down?" A small smirk played at Malik's lips, and he leaned down over his knee to bring their faces closer. "Because from the looks of it, you don't seem to be trying very hard."

Bakura kicked his legs, letting out a choked noise as Malik's weight pressed unyieldingly down on his sternum. The air was slowly squashed out of him in the most embarrassing way. Damp hair stuck to his cheeks and mouth. It was maddening to have such contrasting emotions cloud his mind—both the repulsion, fury and hysteria that came with any mention of the wretched Pharaoh, and the perhaps even more disgusting sensation that Malik was dragging out of the Spirit's body at that very moment. Jagged waves of libido stung his face and shoulders. "Farther than you know," he rasped, lurching upward against Malik's heavy boot. It did little good, seeing as Malik's weight pressed further down with every second, but it brought their faces together again. Bakura took extra care to let spit fly from his mouth as he spoke. "I'd hang him from the pillars. Rip a royally sacred dagger across his chest and watch the guts spit shit and blood and bile on his throne." His hands shook with zeal. "I'd eat his fancy fucking boar and drink all his wine underneath his spasming corpse."

Malik would be lying if he said Bakura's words didn't seem appealing. Any sort of mutilation aimed at the pharaoh sounded appealing, but Malik wasn't stupid. He was a realist. He saw things for how they were and how they would be. He wiped at his face, ridding it of any splays of spit. "Interesting." He paused. "But I'm afraid that won't do." Malik reached behind himself and pulled out his rod, though using its powers wasn't his plan. The Egyptian lifted his foot, but replaced it with his knee as he kneeled to get even closer to Bakura. The sharp end of the Rod was pointed at the pale man's throat, pressing just below the Adam's apple. "Your foolish little mind can only comprehend in dreams. Do you want to know what I dream? What lulls me to sleep on nights that make me toss and turn?" Malik, almost gently, started to pull and tug the hair that stuck to Bakura's face out of the way, busying himself. "Of course, like myself, my dreams are better than yours. My dreams are going to be fucking real, and maybe, if you actually listen to what I tell you, you'll be able to play out any possible fantasy you want. You have to tell me you'll listen, though. I only share my dreams with those who aren't going to have me waste my breath."

"Hnnh...gggh..." Bakura huffed and gagged, the Rod's cold point tickling his skin like a metallic insect. Malik was so close to him now, really towering over his stupidly small and wiry host's body. Malik's insults raked at Bakura's ego but the boy's hands tugging stray strands of hair distracted his fiery train of thought. He tipped his head back, trying not to be impaled by the shaking tip. Of course Malik dreamed, probably dreamt of golden palaces and open skies and glorious freedom. Probably had motorcycle wet dreams, too. "Fucker," he croaked. "I wish I had something to lull me to sleep during nights where I toss and turn because of the headache called Ishtar I seem to keep getting." He licked his lips, trying to balance his heart rate. The word 'fantasy' doubled the speed of the blood in his veins. "What mediocre inklings do you muse upon when you aren't jacking off to the fact that you're sleeping in a real bed instead of a slab?"

Malik's smirk turned bitter and hateful, his hands stopping their gentle touch and turning aggressive. The Spirit always made this shit so fucking difficult. He grabbed Bakura's face, squeezing what very little fat resided in the man's cheeks. "You don't know anything about me, Spirit," Malik murmured, tracing the cold, sharp metal along the length of Bakura's neck. "I plan to ruin the pharaoh's life. Then I plan to end his life. I plan to make him suffer for as long as possible. I plan to break every single one of his fingers one by one." Malik took in a deep breath, and he finally made eye contact with Bakura, not blinking. "I plan to rip off his fingernails. I plan on cutting out his tongue and listen to his pathetic whimpers and groans. I'm going to break his legs and watch him crawl around on the floor beneath my throne. I'm going to slit his throat, just enough so that he chokes on his blood, but he doesn't die. I want him to fucking suffer until he begs me to kill him." Malik's face was just inches away from Bakura's, and he looked down at him with lidded eyes. "Shall I continue? I have so much more I want to share with you..."

The imagery flooded Bakura's mind in waves of blurry impetus and he tipped his head back further, shaggy white hair splaying out over the floor. His legs shifted uncomfortably with the growing tension in his chest and hips. He sniffed through his nose and sighed heavily, drinking in every calamitous concept Malik whispered like a viper into his cold ear. The cataclysmic level of rampage Malik promised for the unfortunate Pharaoh was like a drug to Bakura's sanguinary tendencies. He leaned up, burying his face in Malik's golden neck, huffing softly and trying to indicate with his closeness the magnitude of his insistence to listen to Malik's reverie. "Tell me," he murmured, voice abrasive with forced control and embarrassment at his sudden submission. "Tell me how you'd destroy him fully, as slowly as you possibly could. Tell me how you'd draw the screams from his worthless throat until the light left his fucking eyes."

Malik was pleasantly surprised with Bakura's reaction, and he decided to use that to his advantage. Perhaps this could be how he can control the malevolent spirit of the Ring. Having Bakura under his thumb would prove to be beneficial, but also quite entertaining. Malik lived for stepping on those who dared to even attempt to have more power than he did. He shoved Bakura's head back down onto  
the floor, holding his throat and pinning it down to the floor. "I'm going to break every single one of his ribs with my bare hands," he whispered, voice slightly raspy. Malik set the rod aside in favor of setting his palm at the base of Bakura's portending rib cage. "Do you think I could do it, Bakura? Do you think I could snap his ribs in half like twigs?" He pressed down then, never taking his eyes away from Bakura's.

"Haaaah..." A real, tangible groan slipped out of Bakura's mouth and he breathed harshly against the freezing floor. The feeling of Malik's warm hand on his back was more invigorating than the rigidity of the Rod. It made him feel personally connected to the man pressing Bakura's body into capitulation. That sensation repulsed, terrified and intrigued him to no conclusive end. He grunted, feeling his body simultaneously moving away from the perceived threat and also shoving itself directly into Malik's line of attack. It was perverse, self-deprecating, and it was what Bakura knew best. He arched his back, letting Malik feel the bones shift and slide beneath the dirty, greasy skin. "Only if you incapacitated him first," he growled. "Only if you were able to hold him down. Then yes," he breathed, "you could yank his spine right out of the back of his torso. Watch his body spasm and lurch in shock and pain."

Malik snorted, moving his hand to the fleshy part of Bakura's side, in between the rib cage and the hip bone. He gripped the man's skin, cold hand holding it firm. "I'll break his fucking legs. I'll tie a rope to his wrists and pull it until I hear the bone pop out of its socket." Malik wasn't really sure why, but he found that feeling along Bakura's body; feeling his flesh, bones, and body heat was fueling his fire and hatred for the Pharaoh. "He'd moan and squirm like a fucking child. How do you think he would do it, Bakura? What do you think he would sound like?" Malik's hand tended and curled, his fingernails digging and scraping into the flesh angrily. "Well? What would he sound like?"

The Spirit choked, shoulders hunching up as his body burned with Malik's stimulation. The gorey visualisations violated his mind in the most beautiful of ways. He wriggled against Malik's grip, partly because he felt the control slipping away from him, and partly so Malik would give him more trouble, more force, more punishment. "He—ahh—he would sound—" it was disgusting how his voice cracked and warbled with the same pathetic intonation that the Pharaoh would make through Malik's torturing. And truly, Bakura thought, this treatment was a form of torture. His heart raced as if on a stimulant, and the friction of his clothes against his skin made him shake. Malik's hands on his flesh crackled like a hot iron and he almost whimpered. It was sickening to hear. "Like a feeble, deplorable animal. Like rancid, piteous vermin." He hissed the last word, feeling the hunger bleeding into his throat. "God, fuck..."

Malik, while he wasn't so much satisfied with Bakura's response, was finding this tactic amusing and empowering. He wanted Bakura wrapped around his finger. He wanted the spirit of the Ring to bend at his will, obey every command without any use of the Rod. And so far, Malik was doing just that. "You're so fucking pathetic," Malik murmured, his tone almost sweet if it didn't hold the malice in his words. He let go of Bakura's sides, and swung his leg over to straddle and sit on top of the man. Malik grabbed Bakura's long, greasy hair yanking his head off the floor. Malik's other hand traced along Bakura's throat. "How did you ever come to think that you were, even in the slightest, better than me? I have so many perfect plans. I have a list of organs I'm going to remove from the pharaoh's body, and I have a select few that I'm going to shove in his throat so I won't have to hear him beg when I get tired of it. I want him to choke on his own disgusting, tainted flesh. And what I want, I always get." Malik leaned forward, his hard, lavender gaze piercing into Bakura's line of vision. "Isn't that right, Bakura?" He asked in a mocking tone. "I deserve to get what I desire, don't you think?"

"Ahh ... mmm ..." Malik's musings would have seriously concerned Bakura had he been paying real attention, but the bodily contact he was currently experiencing almost fully blotted out the magisterial tone. It was vile how much he yearned for more interaction, more subordination, more maltreatment. It fueled his most repugnant inclinations, made him fizzle and spark beneath Malik's strong thighs. He wanted, of course, to fight back, to shove the boy's idiotic body off him and slam his puny form to the floor so hard his so-called astute brain spattered across the floor in a gorgeous gory arc. Instead, he felt himself shrink down, inferiority leaking pink into his gaunt cheeks. "I—you —Malik ..." Bakura was incensed by how much his repulsive libido inhibited his snarky comments. "I'm sure you'd—you'd love to think you're a god. You're no deity. You certainly do, um—do deserve to get what you want, though," He whispered, pushing his neck against Malik's pawing hands and shifting his hips at the same time. It amazed him that words leaving his lips were actually his. "You deserve to sip ambrosia from the Pharaoh's rotting head, swathed in endless robes and reclining so suh-sanctimoniously."

Malik watched Bakura speak, his fingers slowly creeping up and squeezing on either side of Bakura's face; The sensitive area just underneath the jaw where the mandible met the neck. He could feel Bakura's pulse at his fingertips, the way the man's blood rushed faster than normal. "Mm ... yeah. I do." Malik paused, looking as though he suddenly found Bakura's face uninteresting and leaned back, his eyes looking elsewhere now. "Does that excite you, Bakura?" He then asked, his hands not moving excepting the one twisted in Bakura's hair to pull his head further back. "Hearing my plans? Listening to how I'm going literally crush that man who dares call himself the pharaoh until his eyes pop out of his tiny skull?" Malik sighed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth three times. "It's a shame you might not be here to be a part of it..."

The swirling miasma of arousal—and certainly, Bakura thought, the workings of the millennium Rod, as he would never subject himself to this treatment in a regular situation—dissolved like salt in boiling water as he heard Malik allude to something. Might not be here? The Spirit's nose crinkled and he tried to sit up, his body contorted into an uncomfortable position with Malik's brown hand tangled in his slimy alabaster curls. His abdomen contracted and twitched with the effort of keeping his upper body stable. The boy's fingers caressing and groping Bakura's oily face all while he murmured insinuated threats into the white ear dizzied and confused Bakura. He stared unabashedly at Malik's visage, wanting almost frantically for him to look at the Spirit, at least acknowledge his presence if he was going to sit on top of him, press his body and his warmth into Bakura in laughably public debauchery. "Excuse me?" He barked, voice hollow. "Why don't you clarify what you just fucking said to my fucking face."

Malik's fingers started to massage Bakura's throat, as if he were just a pet, something to amuse and entertain Malik for the moment. He ignored Bakura, and went on. "Hm ... yes. I can't possibly share my glories with someone who is so incredibly self-destructive and unpredictable. How can I be sure I get what I want, what I deserve, if I have a childish, immature thief on my side." Malik's fingers stopped moving, his hand spreading across the skin of Bakura's neck, fingers showing off and spreading, as though they could wrap around Bakura's entire brittle neck. It was then that Malik looked down at Bakura, though his expression was dull, bored. "I suppose I'll have to fix you first. I'm sure, considering how easy you are to lose your temper, I can't trust you with important roles in my plan if you're like that." Malik's lips twitched into a small smirk, and he tilted his head mockingly. "Am I wrong?"

"What?!" Bakura's chin shot upward, neck sore at it was, what with Malik's vice like grip on his head. Sharp yellow teeth bared in Malik's direction as Bakura grimaced ferociously at his predator looming above him. "You fucker! You fucking—you dare call me childish, call me—" he sputtered, nails trying to lacerate the floor. Suddenly, Malik's mass on his body felt less like a sultry, controllable power move and more like a purposeful maneuver to force Bakura into absolute submission. He bristled, face red and pink with anger. He shoved himself upright and grabbed at Malik's gaudy violet collar. "Listen here, you pompous—fuckin' pompous little urchin, you cannot and will not 'fix' me. I'll fucking destroy you if you put your filthy hands on me, you motherfucking cockroach." He sneered, eyes low and foreboding. "Your hands have only desert dirt and stone on them. Mine have the blood of dozens. There is no room for comparison."

Malik, despite his awkward position, did not bristle or change his expression. In fact, he smiled. It was poisonous. "But, Bakura, I already have my hands on you," he said, as if stating the obvious. Malik still held Bakura's head firm, and, abruptly, let go of his hair and slammed his face into the cold, dirty floor the man was already brought down to. Malik hoped his nose would bleed. Bakura's hand, the one that dared to grip Malik's clothing, would either have to let go, or, better yet, Malik grabbed Bakura's wrist and easily brought it into a twisted, unnatural position behind his back. "That was foolish of you. How far did you think you'd get with the rest of your useless body pinned to the floor?" Malik pulled on Bakura's arm further. "Just another example to prove me right. You do need fixing. A lot of fixing." Malik grinned to himself, the hand on Bakura's face rubbing it into the floor. "Let's start right now."

Bakura thrashed and grunted in furious frustration, even as a whine of pain escaped his trembling lips at the shock of having his face mashed on the floor. Blood flowed freely, coming in waves in time with his pulse and drenched the front of his shirt with great gusto. It fucking hurt, a lot, and every time he breathed through his nose, it stung in an influx of torment. The gore was surprisingly red in contrast to his grimy white skin, and he noted that it almost looked like he was wearing his great red thief's coat, a symbol of such pride and dignity to him. "Haaah ... hnngh ... dirty trick," he gnashed, teeth clenched as he tried to speak clearly through the pain. He recognised the stratagem, having used that same tactic to subdue those fools in the cemetery, and it humiliated him to be suppressed with the same technique. Blood ran over his lips and into his mouth as he spoke. "You've no idea how many have tried to fix me," he mocked, face exsanguinated and voice gurgling with liquid. "You can play with me all you want, but it won't change the fact that I'll always be fucking better than some 16-year-old shut in with a god complex and a fancy gold toy." He turned his head backwards and spat a pink glob of spit in Malik's direction. "Fucking father killer. You're a loose cannon with no direction, rhyme or reason. You're the fucking useless one."

Malik let go of Bakura's head to wipe off the god awful saliva-blood mixture that caught his cheek. A voice in the deep, dark confines of Malik's conscious screamed murder. The mentions of his past were perhaps the fuel to that fire, but not the anger Malik had held for the pharaoh was mixing with the situation he was in, and more specifically mixed with his anger towards Bakura. It was dead silent in Malik's ears for what seemed like a long moment, but was perhaps only a few seconds. He stared down at Bakura, calculating what to do with him, and decided to feed the voice's desire to see more red ooze out of Bakura's lanky body. Maybe he'd run out. Without a word, without a comeback, Malik was a silent killer, holding Bakura's arm firm with one hand and, with the other now free, slid them along the bony, slender arm, halting at the bandage. "I think you need to apologize to me," he said, his voice calm and collected, even though a symphony of screaming anger and rage rang in his head. As he spoke, Malik's fingers tore the bandage away, revealing Bakura's red, inflamed and self-inflicted stab wound. "Or, at least, correct yourself. Until you do, I'll just have to punish you." Malik turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, not really wanting to watch the disgusting display as he shoved his finger into the wound, going in as far, as deep as he could go. Bakura's flesh was hot, and this action seemed to quiet down the pounding in Malik's head for the moment.

Bakura whipped his head back and half moaned, half shrieked in fierce, excruciating pain. It felt so torturous, so violating. It was as if Malik was abusing his mind and body with the playfulness of a cat and a broken down mouse. Drool and blood mingled on his chin in a messy puddle. "Ah! Fuckin'—god, fuck, fuck, shit, it hurts!" His words stumbled over each other in a painful amalgamation. His body spasmed in horrible spurts, egged on by Malik's finger jerking and prodding his insides. His wound, already so infected and diseased with his constant anxiety-induced picking and poking, screamed with terror and confusion as Malik's long nails invaded his sinews. "Fuck, Malik, stop, I—stop, fuck, it fucking burns—" he hissed, the hand being held down struggling and wrenching against Malik's grip. "Fucking—oh, god—you're obscene. You—see, you let your emotions control you so quickly, fucking—huh-hellion." Tears pricked his eyes. "'m not fucking—fucking apologising for shit," he whimpered. "For shuh-shit."

Malik wriggled his finger, that voice in his head yelling at him to dig until he felt the bone, but the boy ignored it this time. "Bakura, do you remember what it was I said before?" He asked, prodding at Bakura's arm some more, enough until he was sure that the muscle would be much too sore for Bakura to bother moving his arm. "If I want something—" Malik ripped his fingers out of Bakura's wound, reach his hand over and hooking his fingers in Bakura's nostrils. "I fucking get it." He yanked Bakura's head up then, Malik's other hand grabbing and squeezing Bakura's bloodied arm. The voice in Malik's head laughed.

Bakura wailed, his bloody face wanting desperately to be against the floor. His drooling mouth huffed damp breath onto the tiles and his eyes squeezed shut with sweat. His arm felt all at once numb and cold and also on fucking fire with the agony of having his wound exposed to the elements. "Ggh—hnn, fuck—fuck, it hurts, Malik, it hurts so badly. Fuck." Bakura huffed and keened, throat choked up and pinched with the effort not to cry outright. Tears of distress were already mixing with the sweat on his forehead and cheeks. "Monster," He hissed, as loud as he dared, voice muffled and twisted with Malik's claws hooked in his nostrils. Blood pulsed down over the boy's terra-cotta fingers from Bakura's hemorrhaging nose, and blood spurted generously from his gash whenever Malik squeezed particularly hard. It was making his mind go blank and white with anguish. He could barely speak coherently. "You—hah—fucking cocksucker," he sneered, talking to the crimson wall before him, dizzy and babbling nonsense. "This all y'can d-do? C'mon. C'mon, Ish-tar."

Malik looked around the hall to see if Bakura's shouting and wailing had attracted any attention. Surprisingly, no. Not that Malik would have cared, though. "I'm not so sure you want me to do more to you," he said, giving his hand, the one with its fingers in Bakura's nose, a quick jerk. "I don't think you'd be able to handle it. Your body and mind are just so small, I wouldn't want to shock them into a paralyzed state. Then what good would you be to me? No, I like this. I think I'll train my dog the way I want to." Malik leaned in closer to Bakura's face, his eyes lidded as his lavender gaze met Bakura's rather unwelcoming one. "Now, bark for me," he murmured in a low, almost seductive tone, contrasting the tension he could feel bubble up in Bakura. "There's nothing else you can do. If there is, I implore you to try. If not, then be a good boy, suck it up, and bark."

Bakura winced and whined as Malik's unyielding fingers yanked painfully at his bruised, bleeding nose. The blood on his face was now semi dry and crusted his clammy skin. Blobs of the stuff coagulated in a nauseating goopy puddle on his chin. His arm sung with pulsing waves of severe discomfort, even the air around it irritating the jagged wound that gaped so widely it felt lewd. The Spirit's mouth hung open in a silent gasp, his body pressed to the floor in a sweaty mass, Malik's heavy weight a terrifying, unmoving force on Bakura's back. He tried to shake his head, loose strands of unwashed hair getting in his mouth and eyes, but Malik's grip was so steadfast that he could barely move his face. It hurt so, so much. Bakura felt dizzy. The sensual atmosphere before, brought on by Malik's touches and murmurs was once again crushed by the boy's violent domination and insistence that Bakura be utterly humiliated. The Spirit huffed, choking on blood from his nose that kept slipping down his throat as Malik held his head at such an uncomfortable angle, and let out a gruff, ashamed sound, a high-pitched, whimpering yip.

Malik felt a warmth of satisfaction when he heard the pathetic noise leave Bakura's lips. He was confident now, that he had Bakura under his thumb. "See? That wasn't so hard." Malik pretended to lower Bakura's head, but abruptly forced it back again. "One last thing, though. You do know that now that you've barked and whined like a pathetic little dog, I am better than you. I will always be better than you. Because of this, you'll do what I say and when I say." Malik pulled Bakura's head further back. "The only way to get that bastard pharaoh on his knees, bleeding and begging for mercy is if you listen to me. Do you understand?"

Bakura's vision winked out for a moment and cold sweat dotted his forehead as he realized he was losing an unacceptable amount of blood. Malik's fingers were relentless in their violation of his nostrils and his arm, already so ravaged and torn up, did not help his desperate attempt to focus his aching brain on Malik's hissing words. He drooled again, pink spittle swinging on his lower lip. He fucking abhorred, fucking despised being told he was inferior, talked down to like a bitch in the mud. It was something he knew all too well from various encounters in Egypt. It made his brain even more confused and disoriented. He was panicking. He felt it in his stomach, his head. His vision warped and twinged like he was powerfully sedated. And truthfully, with Malik restraining him so expertly, he might as well be. "Hunh ... r-really ... really now," he stuttered, speaking into the floor. "Is that—is, uh—that how it wuh-works." He shivered, the spasm more intense than he would have liked, muscle rippling against Malik's flesh. "I ... mmn. I, uh—I understand."

"Good choice." Malik abruptly released Bakura's head and arm, though he still sat on top of his body, looking down at him. He then began to comb his fingers through Bakura's greasy, tangled hair, gently and calmly. "I'm glad you understand," he murmured, almost innocently. At this point he felt he could say anything he pleased, because the Spirit would listen unconditionally. It entertained him greatly. He decided to play with the man's emotions a little more, squeeze and stretch his psyche to Malik's liking. "I think, if anyone besides myself deserves to hear the pharaoh cry out in pain, it's you, Bakura." Malik gently glided his fingertips across Bakura's cheek as he gathered the stray hair stuck to the spirit's face. "I think you should be the one to stomp on his skull until his useless brain is squashed into the ground."

Bakura made a low, rumbling sound of uncomfortable and unwanted pleasure. Regardless of his current situation, hearing about the Pharaoh being ruthlessly crushed by the Spirit's shoe made him shiver. Plus, whenever Malik's hands were on him, he felt the electric pulse, the connection that drew them so absurdly close together, like two magnets defying their natural mannerisms. His head shifted slightly, pushing back against Malik's hatcheling fingers in what was both a frustrated opposition of his situation and also a wanton, frenzied plea for more. If there was anything that pulled Bakura back from the brink, even when he was on the edge of tearing himself apart, it was the persuading, sensual stroking of his ego. It was the thing that kept him out of the grave, the driving force that had ignited his soul so harrowingly that it was able to survive and thrive for so long to fulfill this one task. "Let me—hnh. Let me kill him," he hissed, tongue lolling out between his teeth in an ugly, submissive gesture. "Let me torture him into—into insanity. Like he did to me. Let me tear off his eyelids so he can't look away when I—when I saw off those legs of his, when I dig into the rotting flesh of his weak appendages with my fuh-fingers." He was sweating, hot and giddy with fantasy and blood loss. "Please. I could draw it out for y-you. For hours. Days. Years."

Malik nodded, and he slowly moved off of Bakura, pulling on his shoulder and flipping him so that he could see the spirit's face. "Years, you say?" Malik busied himself with pushing Bakura's bangs back, trusting now that he wouldn't fight it. "What do you suppose you would do first? You have so much potential and such a..." he smirked, lightly tracing his index finger along Bakura's cheek. "A creative mind. You're the only one who will be able to do the job successfully. So tell me, will you be making the pharaoh bleed first? Or will you be squashing him down, stomping on his feeble body parts to cripple him for good?"

While it definitely confused and aggravated Bakura to have this snake whisper such exaltation in his ear even as he lay bleeding and pulsing with pain that same boy had inflicted, he fucking adored, yearned, needed the accolade. It was what actually kept him alive. Otherwise he would perish, fade into the obsidian void of the Ring and be lost, be unable to fulfill his hellish purpose. It gave him a weird rush to be told he was so close to victory, that it would be so easy to pulverize the man who made his life and his death a never ending nightmare, because truthfully, he wasn't near the finish line, and he was not yet able to accept that he was in fact less close to supremacy than he ever had been. Whomever was able to convince him of this reverie gained the Spirit's acquiescence. If they could draw him back into the chimera of triumph he constantly surrounded in, he did not care if the same person had dug their dirty fingers into his open, stinging wound a few minutes before. It was a morose existence. "I would—make him immobile, first, " Bakura growled, kneading his face into Malik's palm. "Drive a couple of rusty nails into his wrists and ankles so he can resemble the fucking—the fucking saint he thinks he is. Draw and quarter him with a spear I've looted from one of the corpses of his palace guh-guards and heated in the fire. Watch his flesh sputter and char like the fuh-finest meat and listen to him howl and vomit in agony." Bakura shook, eyes closed, face red. "For days and nights and days and nights until he—he didn't know whether he was alive or dead, he would be in such anguish."

Malik watched Bakura with a dulled fascination, mentally praising himself for taming this revenge-hungry spirit. Every word that came out of his mouth was another piece of the Ring spirit's puzzle that Malik was trying to further solve. It was satisfying, though, to hear another person share such intimate detail of their revenge. Malik felt as though he'd entered a hidden area of Bakura's mind, and the flush on Bakura's face made Malik smirk. "I see. That sounds absolutely perfect." Malik kept his hand on Bakura's face a moment longer before he slowly slid it down, gently caressing the spirit's neck and moving back up to comb through his hair again. "If I asked you to do something to him, would you do it? Would you slice him open and give me his heart? Because that's what I want you to do. I want to watch you drive a knife into his chest and pull it down to cut him open. I want to watch his blood splatter on your ugly pale skin." Malik leaned closer, his head over Bakura's, and his eyes locking onto the ones below. "I want to watch you shove your hand into his steaming, hot, bleeding body and rip out his heart. I want to watch it beat exactly three times in your hand before it stops." Malik held Bakura's face in his hand now, firmly, but not threatening. "Do you think you can do that for me?"

Bakura felt like a wild animal gripped tightly in Malik's gorgeous, vice like grip. "Yuh-yeh—" his voice shook and wavered in such a loathsome way it made him sick. The boy's touch enchanted and repelled him equally. His pulse raced and jerked around his body. "Yes," he huffed, deeply sunken eyes boring into Malik's sublime mauve pupils. "I'd, uh, I'd—press it to your lips. Let you feel the lilt of it against your teeth, the—the copper taste of his mortal blood on your tongue." Bakura's body felt immeasurably jittery, overstimulated. He almost craned his neck up, wanting more revolting closeness with the boy. He could control himself in that respect, but his body still hummed with reaction, and he pushed his cheek against Malik's warm palms. "Mmmm. All that blood."

Malik held Bakura's face a bit tighter and lifted his head off the ground as he pulled him closer. Malik's lips jerked with amusement as he spoke. "You are absolutely..." Within a second, Malik released his hold and Bakura's head was dropped to the floor. "Repulsive. Tch. Look at you." Malik moved away and gestured to Bakura's body. "You told me that I let my emotions get in the way? Funny." Malik reached over and flicked Bakura's crotch, looking back at him with a snort. "You're fucking shuddering at the thought of having your revenge. Now look at you. You let someone you don't even know walk all over you." Malik flicked him again. "And I bet you'd let me do it some more."

Bakura hissed, recoiling violently, and put a hand over his face, which was red and hot with both blood and embarrassment. The treatment was humiliating, shameful and gloriously received. The Spirit was sure Malik was having the time of his infuriatingly young and successful life. The boy was fucking right on the money and it almost scared Bakura. They had no past interactions apart from a couple minor spats inside Ryou's brain, and Bakura had casually blocked that from his memory in order to focus on more important things. All he really knew about Ishtar was that he had something Bakura wanted, he also despised the Pharaoh, and he was recklessly, dangerously powerful in playing with Bakura's mind. It felt like his cerebrum was being pulled and caressed every which way. When Malik tapped him, his hips jerked on their own and he swallowed heavily. "Stop," he muttered, sweating profusely. "That's uh, that's just—I mean—hah, shit..." He wanted Malik to touch him again, to grab him and shove his tongue down the Spirit's pale, feeble throat, even as it was covered in warm, stinking blood. That would only make it better. More wrong. "I wouldn't—fuck, wouldn't do anything like..." He couldn't even bring himself to finish the thought. He was backed so far into a corner that it seemed silly to talk in such blatant fiction, which made him even more tensed up. Malik was digging into him, finding the raw and ugly truths Bakura kept so well hidden. It was almost impressive had the latter not been in the gallows.

"No? Ha! How I wish I had a mirror." Malik licked over his bottom lip, calculating his next move, trying to figure out what would rile up Bakura the most. Malik grabbed a hold of the Rod again, pressing the golden ball to Bakura's ruddy, bloody face. "I can have you do whatever I want. But I know I don't even have to use this thing to control you." The boy pulled the golden item away to tap casually at the spot just above Bakura's crotch, on his sweaty waistline. "What is it you really want. Tell me. And maybe I'll give it to you."

Bakura's entire mutilated body screamed out to be touched. Nauseating as it was, he wanted to be held, groped, fondled like a harlot. Years of separation, of isolation from human contact made him almost immune to even the most intimate of contact, but with Malik...with Malik, he felt completely pressed down, dominated like a filthy dog in the most alluringly perverse manner. The Spirit's shaky, clammy meatsack shrieked for Malik's resplendent body to stroke him, feel him, perhaps even transfer some of that warmth and cognizance to Bakura's own dying form. All these thoughts surprised and disturbed him, but he still struggled to compose a coherent sentence with Malik's russet fingertips making a percussion across his abdomen. His nose still hurt very badly and so did his arm, which was now smarting in time to his thrumming heartbeat. Blood crusted the corners of his mouth and his tongue tasted of metal. "I—mm—!" he tried to turn away, to have Malik stop looking at him in that way he did, with his too-large plum coloured eyes and that all-knowing half smirk. It always ripped straight through Bakura's damn defenses. "You really think you can give me w-w-what I want? Keep druh-dreaming, boy. You're nothing c-compared to what I've had in the, uh, the past..." Referencing his former glory was weak, but it was all he could do to keep whatever filthy shred of dignity he had left. Though that was definitely fading fast.

Malik made an amused hum, twirling the rod in his hand without even looking at it. "Do I think I can give you what you want?" Malik began, sticking the sharp point of the Rod under Bakura's shirt. He slowly trailed the cold metal along Bakura's abdomen, stopping when the gold point poked through Bakura's collar and met with his chin. "No. I don't." Malik sneered, his hot breath hitting Bakura's face as he leaned in closer, looking like a cat ready to pounce on easy prey. "I know that I can." In a quick motion, Malik pulled his hand backward, the blade of the Rod ripping Bakura's shirt in half from collar to hem, the sound of the fabric echoing in the quiet hall. Malik reveled in the power he gained with every passing moment, and much like his Rod had done, he wanted to strip Bakura of any and every intimate internal thought. Malik wanted to dissect the Spirit. Find out what made him tick. And so far, Malik had gained enough information to just that without any repercussions on his part. "So you might as well tell me. What's it going to be, Bakura? Tell me your meaningless fantasies, or I'll just figure them out myself. I'll have you know I can make both options enjoyable for myself."

The Spirit's body pulsed when the sudden cold air stung his clammy skin. His hips and stomach bent upward as it was so roughly exposed to the elements. The cut had been loud, sharp like a bark, and it shocked his heart into an even quicker beat. Every word Malik uttered was a sizzling burn in Bakura's psyche, melting him down like he was being branded. He almost thrust his upper body up towards the boy's hands, his mouth. His lips trembled and he bit into them spitefully. The flesh felt better freed from its bloody fabric prison, but he felt incredibly exhibited, bared in front of this glorious man. "Um...uh...hn..." He spoke in idiotic, forced phrases. It would have been hilarious had he not been topless and sweating and bloody beneath Malik. He would have liked it so much better if Malik just put his hands on him instead of having to vocalise his vile fancies. He wanted to fucking claw at the boy, slam him to the ground, slide their heated mouths, their bodies together. It was the animalistic side of him that wanted no holds barred. "I...ah...you." His voice murmured with low tremors. "You've, ha, got your answer, I—I thought." He flexed his malnourished torso, licked the blood off his lips. "Malik. Malik..."

Malik snorted in amusement, smirking down at Bakura in pride. "Of course it's me you want. There's only one thing wrong with that." He leaned over Bakura's face, opening up his mouth and slipping in the pointed part of the Rod. He pressed it to Bakura's tongue, deep in the back. "You're completely and utterly pathetic. You're not good enough for me. You never will be. I will always be the one at the throne, and you'll always be at my feet." Malik pulled the Rod back slightly before he applied pressure, the sharp point piercing into Bakura's tongue near the center. It was small and careful, almost as if it had a purpose. "How does that make you feel, Bakura? Knowing you'll be so close to the top, but never actually reaching it?"

Blood lapped at Bakura's tonsils, the Rod scraped at his esophagus like a talon, and bile shot up his throat at a surprising rate. Puke splashed generously on the tiles below as the Spirit clawed the floor in humiliation and discomfort. "Muh—" How would it feel, he bemoaned, sourness coating his tongue, to be denied the only true miracle of victory? How would it be to experience watching the Pharaoh be carted away in the arms of a golden chariot, languid as a cat and delicately smoking a shisha pipe. To watch all this as he was swallowed, ingested, devoured, by the broiling, ensnaring darkness. While he was forced to view this flamboyant, gaudy display. Decay. Rot in the sheen of faux light. The Spirit's body convulsed. He squeezed his hands into fists. Honestly, it would make him feel so... so very, very... "Relieved." He rasped, hair in between his lips. "That I'm finally being shown my true place. That my efforts—are in vuh-vain and where I belong is on the—the steps of the thr-rone," He shuddered, grotesquely, vulnerably, whispering in low, vomit-slicked grunts. "Malik. Again. The—" A sweaty pause. "The ph-physicality." It was the most neutral way he could think to word it.

Malik's lip curled in disgust, though he could tell that he'd certainly gotten somewhere that had given him the upper hand. "You're grotesque. Repulsive. Look at your heaving corpse." He remained collected, drawing his attention to another part of Bakura's body. "You seem to have to be constantly reminded that you're nothing compared to me. You shouldn't be speaking—No, you shouldn't even be looking at me. You'll be begging me for direction soon enough. Asking me to tell you where to look and what to do." Malik trailed his finger along Bakura's bony torso, all the way down to his baggy trousers where, it was obvious now, Bakura's mind was focused. Malik dipped his fingers into Bakura's tattered jeans, not needing to look at what he was doing, but instead choosing to amusedly watch Bakura. "You'll be asking me what more you can do for me. You'll be my fucking pet." Malik smirked confidently as his fingers wrapped around Bakura's hardening dick and he squeezed. "Isn't that right?"

Bakura keened and shivered, sticky, sweaty hair splaying out in white spiderwebs across his forehead. It felt so good, so deliciously, ridiculously good, and it sent waves of rippling carnality rushing through his fragile form. It was hilarious to assume that Malik was doing this because of he wanted to bring Bakura satisfaction. It was a game, and the Spirit was just a toy that caught Malik's attention because of how well he responded to the latter's poking and prodding. How regal Malik must look now, delicately positioned and glowing with jurisdiction, while Bakura writhed and shuddered under his grasp, coated generously in vomit and blood and shame. It was a vulnerable and pathetic situation, and the absurdity of it occurring inside the same blimp the Pharaoh currently resided in spurred Bakura on in reckless abandon. He panted, mouth fully open so as not to taste the abominable mixture of puke and blood on his tongue. "Malik," he growled. "Malik. More. More. I'll do—I'll be better. Efficient, obedient. Productive. Just—more."

Malik lidded his eyes, offering a softer facial expression to contradict with his words. "Of course you will," he said, moving his hand and stroking Bakura slowly. "You'll do anything to get where you want. You'll even humiliate yourself and admit defeat." Malik chuckled, an amused sound that didn't hold much malice behind it. "I always knew that about you, Bakura. You can't hide anything from me." Abruptly, Malik squeezed his hand, watching Bakura's body react. It was satisfying to know that he was the cause of Bakura's distress. If it could even be called that anymore at this point.

The Spirit yelped and choked, mewls subsiding slowly into a continuous murmuring groan in his throat. Fuck, this was euphoria-inducing, fantastical, so disgustingly and deliciously wrong. He was a powerful, age old being, chiselled and smoothed by time and mental prowess. He was a king, a survivor, a demon of pure darkness, and he was submitting thoroughly to this golden brown child before him who was touching and dragging at him in a gorgeously impertinent manner. Malik was a cavalier prince idly stroking a swine in its royal pen. Bakura would have laughed had it not been for the vomit and blood smeared around and inside his mouth, as well as this entire humiliating situation. He swore, again and again, legs sliding feverishly on the blood soaked floor. "Fuck, fuck—oh, Malik, please," he snarled, drool swinging from his shaking lips. "Anything. I—the Pharaoh, I would kneel at his—oh, gods—for you, Malik, anything at all, just—" he shook his sweaty white head, amused and dizzy at this uncharacteristic wailing. "Keep. Going."

Hearing Bakura only delighted Malik further, and he couldn't wait to hear the desperation in the other's voice when all of it would come to an end. Malik wanted to draw it out, though. Give Bakura a false sense of receiving pleasure, and gaining more power for himself in return. "Anything? That's quite a bold statement," he murmured, trailing his other hand over Bakura's bare chest and belly, tracing random shapes with his index finger as his other hand continued to stroke at a painfully slow pace. "Just a little while ago, you were telling me how superior to me you were, but here you are offering yourself up to the Pharaoh, of all people." Malik pinched one of Bakura's nipples, almost skillfully working at his body to get him to reach the edge, but not quite going over. "So, I'm wondering now, what is it you really want, Bakura?"

Bakura keened and sweat and rapidly snapped his teeth together, head whipping from side to side in frenetic rapture. This was excruciatingly unfair, infuriating and violent and oppressive to an extent that made Bakura wild with confusingly arousing rage. Malik's palms felt fucking amazing on the Spirit's hilariously dead flesh and the delighted, childlike expression of glee on Malik's terra cotta face sickened Bakura even more intensely. That nausea did nothing, however, to quell his frenzied, gasping climb towards orgasm by Malik's jerking, twisting hand. It felt like the closest the Spirit would ever get to experiencing a situation in which he had a total lack of control and was completely, perilously okay with it. "Please! Fuck! Malik!" He yelped, trying to keep his voice low, trying to keep it dangerous, but the notes kept cracking in his throat. His legs, wet and pungent with blood and puke, scrambled around to Malik's crouching form, trying to press their contrasting bodies together. "Malik—fucking hell, I want you to fuck me, destroy me, duh-desecrate my fucking worthless—my worthless mortal body, it's yours, please, just—finish, finish me, please!"

Bakura's display made Malik want to laugh. So he did. He tossed his head back and actually laughed as if Bakura had just told him the most hilarious joke of Malik's miserable life. And really, in a way he did. Malik kneed Bakura in the hip and abruptly pulled both of his hands off the man's body, halting the attention. He then shoved Bakura's legs away and repositioned himself along his body. Malik sat on top of Bakura again, pinning the other's arms to his sides. He grabbed Bakura's face and leaned in as close as he could without feeling the need to vomit. Bakura smelled awful. "No," he said simply, still grinning with amusement and delight. "I will not be fucking you, Bakura. You're not worth my time, nor are you even worth two seconds of my attention. I just need you to listen to me. And maybe—Just maybe—if you do a good enough job, you'll deserve to go all the way. But not now. Not today. Not for a long—" Malik sneered. "Long time." He then let go and stood himself up, towering over Bakura and lifting a foot, nudging the man's head to the side with his boot. "That's your place. Beneath me. Nothing more than the dirt on my shoes. Understood?"

The laughter stung, pointed and mocking, and it was almost the same dominant air as Bakura would have used in dealing with an easily disciplined palace guard. It was a gorgeously complete switch of roles and Malik played his part very well. Bakura writhed on the floor at his feet, a horrid mixture of bodily fluids sloshing and coagulating around them both. The Spirit was incomplete without Malik. He was a shell, a wild dog without a leash, untamed and unmanageable with no discernable outlet for his energy. He /needed/ Malik, his entire body needed and wanted and craved and twitched for the golden boy. This vulnerability, combined with the physical repulsiveness of his situation, was enough to make another wave of bile wash up his throat and onto Malik's pristine boots. Bakura would not cry. He would not stoop that low. But apparently he would fucking prostrate himself at this man's feet as he stood elegantly over the latter. "God," he whispered, he groaned, slick, wet mouth pressed against Malik's toe, hands grabbing shakily at Malik's toned calves. "I—belong to—to you, my body, my soul—please, please, I'm begging you, please, Malik! I'm nothing, a dirty, foul creature and you are a fucking god!"

Malik's nose wrinkled in disgust, and he tilted his head. He looked as though he were examining a foreign creature in captivity, and an ugly creature at that. Malik grabbed his Rod and used it to push and nudge Bakura's hands off his legs. "Don't touch me," he spat coldly, finally pushing Bakura away with his foot before shaking the vomit off his boot, some of the contents splashing back into Bakura's face. "You just made a huge fucking mess. Filthy swine. Before I leave you to your misery, you're going to have to clean up this mess." Malik pointed to his shoe with the Rod, looking at Bakura expectantly. "Lick it off. Now."

Hurriedly, in a daze of heat and pain and lack of stomach contents, Bakura focused his gaze as best he could on the splatter of muck on Malik's pretty shoe. Hilarious how much it mirrored his psyche at that point in time. His mouth shakily opened, spilling more gooey contents he was trying to hold in onto the floor. His hands slipped and slid in the mess. His face was red with embarrassment, arousal, shame, anger. It boiled in his stomach and thighs like hot, heavy lead. He leaned his shaggy, sweaty head down, very low down to the floor, and dragged his sticky tongue over Malik's shoe. It did little difference as Bakura's face was smeared and dripping, so he lapped feverishly at the toe tip until it was covered in spit and not in spit up. He looked up, far up Malik's perfect body, to his cold, mocking face. "Malik. Malik. My god, my king. Please." It was an unspoken plea for the torture to end.

Malik looked down at Bakura over his nose, his expression showing no sign of gratitude, only a disappointed, unimpressed look. "I have what I want from you. I believe you know your place now." Malik shook his foot and stepped away from Bakura's pitiful display and turned his back to him. "I assume you know the way back to your room, then? Go there. I don't think anyone should have to have to endure seeing such a creature like you sniveling on the floor." With that, Malik started walking away, his boots thudding softly on the tile floor. He didn't even glance back at Bakura. Not that he really wanted to, anyway. Bakura's work was done. All Malik had to do know was finalize his plans and tell Bakura what to do. After all, that is what Bakura said he'd do, and Malik was confident he had the Spirit of the Ring wrapped tightly around his finger now.

 **[** _ **Please review if you wanna also special thank you to my best bakura friend for doing all these rps with me they are so fun and we are novelists :-)**_ **]**


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